Love With The Holmes Brothers
by PsychicDreams
Summary: A long series of oneshot vignettes in the Treatment series about Sherlock and John, and Mycroft and Lestrade. [M for possible later chapters]
1. Jealousy From The Powerful

Mycroft stared at the frozen image on his screen and he wondered why he had been annoyed at himself how long ago now when Sherlock had been jealous. He could feel nothing beyond the absolute anger and pure, overriding jealousy. That…woman…had her hand on _his_ Gregory's arm. His fingers tightened into fists, the only outward sign of his emotions and he was glad he was alone and there was no one to see.

His relationship with the Detective Inspector was still very new, barely a month old, and he was writing internally over what he was seeing. It was too new, it couldn't stand up to the uncertainties could it? This was _different_ from Sherlock and John. Sherlock was an idiot; John was absolutely and utterly _enamored_ of his younger brother and it was painfully and glaringly obvious. Besides, Sherlock had been absolutely sure that John loved him, he'd only been annoyed and jealous that someone else had dared tease him about John making a good couple with whoever it was.

Greg was different. He was charming, personable, and devastatingly handsome in a rough-and-tumble kind of way. He wasn't enamored with Mycroft the way that John was with Sherlock. He'd said the words 'I love you', but how could he believe that wholeheartedly when… His thoughts swung from insecurity back to anger. How dare his ex-wife dare come back even for a single conversation, when the detective inspector was his! She had _no _idea who she was going up against.

No, she clearly didn't and he was going make it clear. Eyes narrowing, he picked up the phone on his desk. "Anthea."

"Yes, sir?"

"Clear some time in my schedule right now."

"For how long, sir?"

"That is undetermined. It should be, at minimum, several hours free."

"Yes, sir." There was a hesitance in her tone before she asked, "Is there something wrong, sir?"

"No," he lied and hung up, only quickly grab his mobile and hit speed-dial for a very specific number.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

Mycroft stood up and straightened his waistcoat even though it was impeccable. "Gregory's ex-wife has returned."

There was a moment of silence and efficiently multitasking, Mycroft pulled on his jacket and glanced in the mirror, deciding to shift his tie just a little so that it was perfect. "If you're calling me, you want me to _do something_," he said in annoyance after a moment.

"They are in his office at the precinct. Please go there and _chaperone_ until I arrive."

"Don't do anything stupid, Mycroft. Lestrade loves you."

"I'm aware of that. However," He pulled back his phone and texted the image to his brother before continuing, "I do believe that her touch appears _proprietary_, don't you think?" A sound of steel came to his voice, the same one that he always had when someone threatened his brother, and Sherlock knew the sound well and how serious he was. "No one is allowed to touch Gregory without my permission, with you and John as exceptions."

"…Fine, we're going, but hurry up." There was a distinct sound of displeasure in his tone, both in annoyance at Mycroft and at the image he had seen.

Mycroft hung up and decided that this suit wouldn't do. If he was going to impress upon her that she had crossed the wrong man, there was only _one_ suit that would fit. He turned and stepped out of his office. "Anthea, we must return to my house for a moment."

-0-

"Is this really necessary, Sherlock?"

He glanced at his lover as they headed down the hall toward Lestrade's office. "Mycroft says it is."

"Since when do you do what Mycroft wants you too? It's just his ex-wife, they were divorced two years ago and—"

"They were married for years, John, and that is a long time to erase. It's possible, as he took her back at least once, that he might choose to do so again. Also, Lestrade is so easy to manipulate, she might just convince him to do that."

John stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Neither of you give Greg any credit, do you? He's not going to get back together with her! He told me he'd rather crawl over hot coals with no clothes on than go back to her."

They had reached Lestrade's door and Sherlock stalked in without responding. The two in deep discussion snapped their heads up and it was only a small blessing that Sarah Jean didn't have her hand on the detective's arm anymore. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"Sherlock? That consulting detective?"

He ignored the demand from Lestrade, and the stupid comment from his ex-wife, and stalked over. "I need a case, Lestrade."

"But…I don't have anything for you," Lestrade stuttered, clearly confused and glancing at John for help.

Sherlock snatched up a folder from the side of the desk, looked at it, and tossed it violently back on the desk as he noted the woman had reached for something on the desk, or to touch Lestrade, he wasn't sure. There was only a two percent chance it was the latter, but always best to stop it regardless. "Pedestrian," he spat, meeting the man's eyes and trying as fiercely as he could to make it clear without words that Mycroft was upset.

Something seemed to click in his brain. "Sherlock—"

"Too late," he whispered as the door opened.

-0-

Despite his urge to, Mycroft didn't throw the door open. Instead he calmly opened it as if it were his own office and he owned the place. Lestrade's eyes snapped to him and his mouth seemed to unhinge a bit. Inwardly, with a part that was raging with jealousy and righteous fury, Mycroft smirked. The black, pinstripe suit with shockingly red tie and crisp white shirt never failed to make the right impression. He idly moved the umbrella in his hand and then closed the door in the silence of his entrance.

"Uh…M—"

"We can talk later, Greg, if you're busy all of a sudden."

He could hear the confusion in the woman's voice, the woman he refused to even use the name of in his head, but he wasn't about to let them talk later. They wouldn't talk again. Period. "That won't be necessary," he assured her, feeling Sherlock's complicated gaze on him. "I will not take up much of your time."

"…My time?"

Mycroft was the picture of casual as he made his way to the side of Greg's desk, head held high. There was a slight bit of heat amid the confusion in his lover's eyes, and he pulled on all his previous experience of dealing with both heads of state and unpleasant drug dealers. He could see that he was intimidating her by the way her eyes moved, the way her fingers twitched as she resisted the urge to rub them up and down her thighs to dispel her nerves.

"Yes, I'm here to see you."

"Hey, M—" This time Greg's voice was silenced, he noted, by a touch of Sherlock to his shoulder. He would thank his brother later. John was looking particularly annoyed at both the brothers, but he would leave that fallout for someone that wasn't him.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes." Her eyes flickered to Sherlock. "Yes, indeed, we are related." He lifted his umbrella, briefly examined the tip in a way that he knew made almost everyone nervous, and looked back at him.

"Oh. Are you a detective too?"

He gave a mirthless smile. "Oh no. I occupy merely a minor position in the British government. It is through our work and my brother that Gregory and I met, you see, and we've become…very close. So in this vein, I would like to request that you cease any contact with him in the future."

"Mycroft!" Lestrade burst out in anger, ignoring Sherlock's sharp glare to be quiet.

Mycroft braced both hands on top of his umbrella, placed the tip against the floor, and leaned forward over her. He wanted to drive his point home and if his eyes were a bit menacing, he couldn't help it. "Gregory is _mine_. You were a fool to treat him as you did, and an even bigger fool to leave him. Do not compound your mistakes by making me an enemy. I assure you that would be your greatest misstep of all."

"That's enough!"

He leaned back, suitably assured that his point had been made. Just by looking at him, he could tell his lover was angry with him and he felt a stab of guilt, but the irrational jealousy was still there and he understood what it must be like for Sherlock, to want to possess John so acutely. The difference between them was that Sherlock would stand in front of John to prevent them others from coming close, and Mycroft could only belatedly realize that he was the type to pull Greg back from behind. They were entirely of different mindsets and it seemed as if it made all the difference in the world. He had never seen John look as angry at Sherlock as Greg was looking at him.

"That's fucking enough! What the hell is all that about, Mycroft?! I'll decide if I want to talk to my ex-wife! For your information, Sarah's _married again_ and she was asking me to be the _godfather_ of her _newborn baby_!"

Mycroft blinked and then a surge of shameful embarrassment flooded through him, only to be beaten back with another irrational surge of jealousy, internally arguing that just because she was married didn't mean she didn't have ulterior motives. She had happily been sleeping with other men while she'd been married to Greg! Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a printed picture of that still, tossing it on the desk in front of his lover. "She touched you, Gregory. That is unacceptable. It was too familiar."

"She's my ex-wife, you git! There's a ton of history between us, but that doesn't mean she wants me like that again and it doesn't mean I want her like that!" Lestrade rubbed his forehead. "Everybody but Mycroft out. Sarah, I'll call you later with my decision, all right?"

The woman glanced at him, but nodded and hurried out as quickly as her feet would carry her. John followed, looking sharply at Sherlock as if to say 'get moving'. Sherlock passed by him, but paused and whispered, "People are so dull, they don't understand." It was the closest thing to encouragement he had ever heard from his little brother and he thanked John's influence that had helped him grow up a little.

When they were alone, Greg walked around the desk to in front of him. "Mycroft…"

He knew he had made a mistake, but because he didn't know how to fix it, Mycroft retreated internally behind all his walls. His face was blank, refusing to let emotions come through. One hand slid into his pocket while the other remained holding onto the handle of his umbrella. He hoped he looked as calm as he usually did, because inside he was a mess.

The detective leaned back against the desk and reached out, tugging Mycroft closer by his jacket until he was standing between the 'v' of his legs. "…You were jealous, huh?" He said nothing, but Greg didn't seem to expect him to respond. "Sherlock tried to warn me that I screwed up, but there wasn't enough time. I fail to see how it was _my_ screw-up when it was your own fault you bugged my office again. Before you and Sherlock barged in, I would have told her I needed to think about it, came over to your place after work, and _talked with you about it_. You didn't have to go 'Wrath of God' on her."

Mycroft's eyes slid away, but Greg tugged him down to share a soft kiss. "I love you, Mycroft Holmes, and I'm honestly, one hundred percent flattered you were jealous over me. It's probably another first for me."

He growled as that hand was twining in his tie, pulling him down for another kiss, and another. "Gregory, don't tempt me," he hissed. "I would have you here and now, and would be none too gentle."

"Why?"

That whispered word wasn't so much because he seemed he didn't know, but that he wanted Mycroft to tell him how he felt. The last thing he wanted to do was that when he was feeling so raw, so exposed.

"Please, Mycroft. Why?"

"Because I can barely contain my urge to possess you," he finally said in an almost Sherlock-like resentment at doing something he didn't want to do. "When I saw the image of her touching your arm, all of my thoughts stopped. It was the most crushing feeling I had, followed by rage. I'm still very angry with you, Gregory, that you allowed her to touch you. You belong to me, and the only others I have deemed fit to touch you besides myself are Sherlock and John. How dare that woman, who is singularly unworthy of you, touch what belongs to me. Your mind, your heart, and most notably your flesh, have my name on them. I put it there nightly when I hold you. I _must_ have all of you."

He didn't even realize he was doing it until he noticed that he'd slowly used his presence to push Lestrade back on the desk and he was over top him. Somewhere along the way he'd dropped his umbrella on the floor. Taking a shaky breath, Mycroft tried to center himself. "I did warn you that this would not be easy. As Sherlock would say, I _am_ a controlling bastard."

"Yeah, but you're my controlling bastard," Greg said with a smile and he knew he was forgiven then. "You don't have to be jealous, but it gives my ego a boost to know that you are. And you know, it's okay. I don't mind if you're 'none too gentle' with me. You've got time?"

"…Yes," he whispered and decided he could thank Sherlock later. Right then, he was occupied, and so was Greg Lestrade's desk.


	2. Case of the Chiropractor

This turned out darker than I expected, but I hope you enjoy

-0-0-0

"You're angry with me."

"Absolutely spot-on deduction," John growled as he slammed the door behind him. He couldn't quite look at Sherlock right then. They had just gone through this with Greg and Mycroft, hadn't Sherlock learned _anything_ about that discussion?

"Now what?"

He whirled and took a deep breath to calm himself. He could yell at Sherlock and he knew the man could take it. He wasn't overly sensitive, but there was a line he couldn't cross and it wouldn't be terribly difficult to cross it once he got going. "Are you seriously going to tell me you don't get why I'm annoyed?"

"John, he was flirting with you."

"Sherlock, he was _sixty_ and asking where Bouverie street was. He wasn't flirting!"

"That's what you think. Don't be so naïve. No one goes to Bouverie anymore."

"How do you know that?!"

"Nobody reads physical newspapers anymore."

"I do!"

"You're the exception. Everyone reads it online now."

He had to hold himself in from screaming and instead took a deep breath. "Didn't we _just _go through this with Mycroft and Greg? You know, the possessive behavior?"

"I don't see how that's related to this. I'm not being possessive, he was flirting with you. I merely informed him of the fact that we were dating."

"You told him that I _belonged to you_!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if to say, 'So?'

"Look, let's leave the whole 'flirting' thing aside, because he _wasn't_, for a second. You don't give me enough credit! I'm not going to up and leave you and I don't need your protection!"

"When have I given you the impression that I don't trust you, exactly?"

"Do you _really_ want me to go down that list?"

Not surprisingly figuring out his thoughts, Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "What you're thinking of is not a lack of trust, but—"

"If you're about to say a lack of intelligence, I will hit you. Hard."

Sherlock threw up his hands and glared. "If you don't want to let me be part of this conversation, then have it your way." The man threw off his coat and stalked into the kitchen.

John followed. "Don't just walk away, we're talking here and it's important!" But his partner wouldn't look at him or speak to him, instead staring into the microscope at something that might not even be there. "Sherlock!" Still no response. "Fine, pout! Very mature."

The doctor felt embarrassed about his reaction about half an hour later. Looking back on it, when he wasn't so annoyed at the wording Sherlock had chosen, he thought it was really quite funny. The man's face had been priceless and he assumed that his had been as well. It didn't change the fact that his lover had been wrong to assume that he had been flirting, but it could be an honest mistake. Their relationship as boyfriends was quite new and he knew that Sherlock had never dated anyone before. In a way, he thought he felt a bit honored that Sherlock would think someone was flirting with him, that anyone would be interested in him that way.

He had honestly expected Sherlock to calm down in an hour or two, but the man still wouldn't look at him or speak to him by dinner. He tried making the detective's favorite food, but it had no effect. When he tried to kiss him, Sherlock moved his head away. Nothing for it, then. "Sherlock, I'm sorry."

The apology got eyes flickering in his direction, but that was all. John frowned in annoyance. Was Sherlock actually going to continue pouting? After he'd apologized? Trying one more time, he said, "What exactly are you upset about?"

No answer was forthcoming and he rubbed his face, biting his lip to prevent himself from yelling in frustration. Obviously he couldn't do anything right that night and rather than make it worse, he needed a place where he could cool off. So he turned, grabbed his phone and his jacket, and just left without a backward glance.

The back of his neck itched and he knew that Sherlock was watching him from the window as he got into the cab he'd hailed and gave his directions to. Maybe if he had some space, he could figure out which part of what he said had hit too hard.

It wasn't a long trip to where he was going and he jogged out and up to the small loft that was his target. He hit the doorbell once and then twice, shivering in the cool of the early winter night. Finally, the door was flung open. "I said cut it out—John?"

He smiled with a resigned sigh. "Hey, Greg. Need to crash on your sofa for tonight. You mind?"

"No, but…"

"Clearly he and my brother have had a falling out at the moment," a man said, his voice wafting from the inner recesses of the apartment.

Of course Mycroft would be there, Because why wouldn't he, with John's luck? "I can find another place—"

"No, come on in, you can stay."

He stepped in, shrugging off his coat in the entryway and hanging it on a peg. Greg led him into the small living room. Mycroft had shed his jacket and tie, sleeves had been rolled up, and he was currently sitting on one end of the sofa as if it was a high-back chair that had ancient history attached to it. "So everything got…worked out with you?"

"Sort of," Greg replied, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a beer. "He knows why I was upset. We'll see if something will come of it next time he has an irrational bout of jealousy." John glanced at Mycroft quickly, who was sitting right there, and back and Greg just shrugged. "Trust me, I've been through all this with him. If he's still upset with me, nothing else I can do about it. Now, what happened with you and Sherlock? Did he…"

"Of course my brother wouldn't kick him out," Mycroft told him, bracing his hand on his chin and his gaze flittered over John, probably taking in so minute in details he felt naked. "Knowing our dear doctor here, I'm sure they argued over our penchant for being…over-bearing. I have been informed that while our partners must have some patience with certain personality features of ours, that does not mean that we don't have to 'act like a damn human being and control ourselves', I believe is the delightful way Gregory explained it."

Greg flushed and shrugged helplessly at his choice of wording. "I was angry."

"I was hoping to borrow the couch tonight to cool off and let Sherlock calm down, but if you're busy tonight…"

Mycroft shook his hand regally, dismissing his politeness with the same elegant high-handedness he did everything else. "You're not interrupting. It isn't as if I don't have plenty of work to do."

"Actually…"

His words paused the tall man that was about to stand and an eyebrow quirked in his direction with a silent 'Yes?'

The truth was, most of the time, he thought he knew Sherlock so well, probably better than anyone and often had no need to ask anyone. Who else was the man even vaguely close to? Yet he found himself at a loss as to what explained the man's behavior. What had he said that was so wrong? In fact, how was he wrong at all with arguing about the possessive behavior?

John hadn't the slightest clue so he asked the one person that might know more than him. "I don't really know what I said that would upset him. I've said a lot of things to Sherlock and he's never gotten this angry before."

As he relayed what he had said, one of Mycroft's eyebrows rose. "Well, isn't he being childish."

"Why is he upset?"

"Oh, I haven't the faintest idea. He's like a child in all respects."

"But I apologized!" he growled, flopping down in a chair. "And I was right despite apologizing!"

"Wish we could help, mate, but Sherlock is…well, Sherlock," Greg added with a shrug.

Mycroft stood up then and began to roll down his sleeves. "I will leave you then to unravel the mysteries of my brother."

"Just one thing," Greg said, reaching out and grabbing the man's tie, tugging him down and kissing him with a deep passion. John looked away quickly to give them their private moment, deliberately humming under his breath so he didn't overhear their whispered words. By the time he looked back, Mycroft had gone.

"So…another beer?"

John looked at his almost-empty beer bottle. "…Why not."

-0-

"Go away."

Mycroft ignored the petulant statement from bundle on the sofa. He had, of course, fixed his clothing before leaving the detective's house and a stab of curiosity had prompted him to detour to his brother's flat to find out just what was causing the man's fit.

Taking him in, his eyebrow rose. "What has got you so upset now?" Deciding to pretend he knew nothing, Mycroft looked around the apartment from the doorway. "Where is John?"

"Probably at Lestrade's by this point and you've clearly just come from there, so there's no need to lie."

He sighed in annoyance and came in, sitting down deliberately in John's chair. Sherlock refused to face him, showing him his back. "He is, apparently, going to be staying the night there." That was a definite twitch, something he noticed though likely no one else would. "If you hadn't refused to speak to him, he most likely wouldn't be there now."

"And you would have tied Lestrade to the bed by that point. Has John ruined all your fun?"

"The doctor didn't ruin any 'fun' at all. I was just curious as to the reason you were pouting like a child." Finally, Sherlock flopped on his back to glower balefully at him. "Why did you refuse to speak to him?" Not surprisingly, at least to him, his brother shrugged. "So you upset him for nothing?"

"He was being preachy. And wrong."

"I don't doubt that, the good doctor is very good at speeches and righteous indignation, but I assume you would like to have sex ever again? Perhaps even dare to be in the same room as him again?"

"Of course."

"Then I would suggest that when he comes home tomorrow that you use any and all in your power to apologize to him and perhaps he will take you back."

"John would always take me back."

He sighed. "Has it ever occurred to you, Sherlock, that you take much for granted? You don't seem to realize you came very close to losing him during your absence. There was a woman named Mary that he had been growing close to. Had you waited on your return, you may not have come even close to this point. He may not always wait for you."

Though his brother pretended he didn't hear him, Mycroft knew his words were sinking in. His job done, he stood up, twirling his umbrella, and decided to head home. That was enough payback for Sherlock ruining his evening. After all, it was _Sherlock's_ fault that John had left their flat to start with.

-0-

The sofa at Greg's place was probably the most uncomfortable thing he had ever had the misfortune to sleep on and he included Afghanistan in that. John slipped off the brutal furniture that felt like someone had randomly placed rocks in the cushions and headed out before the detective was even awake. The snores of his friend seemed to follow him on his way out.

It was still dark, the sun not having quite gotten out of bed yet, and he took the opportunity to walk in the quiet back to his flat. He…missed Sherlock. Damn him, but he missed him, temperamental and all. He had overreacted the day before. Right as he might have been, there had been a better way of approaching it and he knew that. Sherlock hated it when he thought someone was telling him what to do and how to feel, or how to act.

Sighing, he unlocked the door and paused at the base of the stairs. He had expected to hear violin music maybe, but there was nothing. Shaking his head at himself and how much he had fallen so helplessly in love, John quietly ascended the stairs. Last thing he wanted was to disturb his landlady and have her hovering over them when they were trying to have a conversation about their relationship.

The door was unlocked and wide open when he reached the landing and he frowned in concern, but all he saw was the usual controlled chaos. He slipped off his jacket, not paying any attention to what he was doing. Where was Sherlock? He wasn't on the sofa nor was he by the window. He didn't see him in the kitchen.

In the quiet he heard the shower and relaxed. Sherlock was still here. It was a stupid fear, where _else_ would Sherlock be? This was his home. Shaking his head at himself, he headed through the kitchen and was fully intending on talking to his boyfriend when he paused at an open manila folder on the table. Wait…he knew that man.

He snatched it up, not even registering the ceasing of the shower. This couldn't be true. _Joe_ would never do any of that. He was a doctor, he could never…!

"…I see you found it."

"Sherlock, what is this?"

"An old case of Lestrade's. It's been unsolved for years." There was a pause. "You know him."

"Yes, I know him. I _work_ with him. What is he doing in here?!"

"If you read the case file, you'd know that he was their prime suspect, but they couldn't prove it. The victim was his cousin."

John quickly flipped through the paperwork, skimming it. This would have happened…fifteen years ago. Joe would have just been starting out, if that. It wasn't…inconceivable, but he couldn't believe that of his friend. "Is he guilty?" he asked. Sherlock was always right when it counted. If he thought he was guilty, then he probably was. Finally, he looked up at his boyfriend, almost willing him to say no. There were dark circles under his eyes and he recognized that face. Sherlock hadn't slept at all last night. He'd probably been working on the case the entire time.

Sherlock turned without saying anything, heading to their bedroom, and John forced himself to wait there. He feared if he followed, he might just shake the answer out of the detective. When Sherlock returned, he was dressed and he answered as if he there hadn't been a break in the conversation. "Yes."

His stomach sank to his feet at hearing that single word. "You're going to find him, aren't you?"

"Well I _did_ consider calling Lestrade first."

"I'm going with you."

His boyfriend blinked at him. "Of course."

The two words were so simple, as if Sherlock couldn't figure out why he _wouldn't_ be going with him. Whatever had been his boyfriend's glitch was long gone, thanks to the case. He should have been happy that things were all right between them, but he wasn't. Joe had been his friend since he'd come home from the war and had been hired. He'd been the only one that didn't look at him strange after Sherlock's 'death' when his reputation had still been in shambles.

Yet no matter what, if Joe had done this, had killed his cousin, then he had to be brought to justice. John grabbed his jacket and quickly followed after Sherlock. The sun would be up in an hour. "Why not wait until he was at work and have Lestrade arrest him then?" he asked, hoping to get a word in with his friend before his world came crashing down.

"He won't be there. He bought a plane ticket last night for Switzerland and it leaves in two hours."

So he was running. "How did he even know to buy one?"

Sherlock frowned. "He saw me when I was following him."

That was one of the downsides to Sherlock's 'fame', as it were. He was so well-known now, his face so recognizable, that if you spotted him following you and you had something to hide, it was a good bet that you'd end up in jail. "Where are we going?"

"His apartment building."

They rounded the corner and John hadn't realized that his friend had lived so close to them that they could get there in twenty minutes by walking. Joe wasn't married, how could he afford… "He did it for the money, didn't he?"

"His cousin had a life-insurance policy for a million pounds and he was the beneficiary. He was sick, would have died of leukemia in months, but he had recently found out that he'd had a child. His cousin was going to change his will."

"And Joe wouldn't get anything." So he had killed him before he could. "How?"

"He faked a car accident on the way to his chemotherapy."

John felt himself getting sicker to his stomach by the minute. He had wanted to believe that it was manslaughter, perhaps, something done by accident…but it had been intentional, for money.

As they approached the door to the apartment building, it opened and Joe saw them. He had two suitcases in his hands, with a heavy coat on, and a look of panic crossed his face. He glanced at the street, maybe he had called a cab that hadn't arrived yet, but nothing was there.

"Joe!" he called, hoping, though not expecting, he could get his friend to just turn himself in.

Instead, Joe dropped his suitcases and turned, running back into the apartment. Sherlock sprinted forward, getting to it before it closed and John raced after him. They pounded up the stairs with no thought to being quiet and burst onto the roof. "Joe?" he called as Sherlock quietly slunk around the edge, looking for him. "You need to turn yourself in, you can't get away with it anymore." Hearing no response, he asked, "Why did you need the money so badly?"

John went the opposite way Sherlock did. There were no lower roofs nearby that he could jump to and he didn't think his colleague could make it back to the door while avoiding them. Which meant he was still up there somewhere. "Joe—"

He felt something slam into his back and he stumbled forward, barely managing to keep on his feet. Before he could get his balance under him, he was spun around and hands were gripping the front of his jacket, pushing him, and he felt the edge of the roof under his heels. "I didn't have a choice!" Joe hissed. "I couldn't have paid tuition any other way!"

"Don't make it worse, you can't get away at this point! You won't make it to the airport in time at this rate."

"…I can always get another ticket. I just have to make sure I can't be found."

Feeling a sense of dread, John asked, "What are you talking about, Joe?"

"He can't find me if he's too busy mourning you. …I'm so sorry, John."

He tried to avoid the push, to fall to the side and not off the roof, but all he ended up doing was pulling Joe with him. He heard a yell, thought it was his name, but Joe's cry was too loud in his ears to be sure. John couldn't see anything to stop his fall, the old building hadn't been retrofitted with a railing, and he was going to—

His fall was suddenly stopped by a tight grip on his ankle and his back slammed against the side of the building. He tried to reach out, to grab Joe, but his fingers only managed to skim his jacket instead of his hand. There was just the sound of a thump from below and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see the impact of his friend hitting the street. Looking up from where he had fallen, he saw Sherlock's face, white with the effort to hold him up. He patted his pockets, looking for his cell. "Shit, Sherlock, is my phone up there?!"

Before his lover could answer, there was a comment from below him. "Sherlock, if you ever get me out of bed again after all you've put me through, I'll make you go with Mummy to the opera!"

Looking below him, he spotted Mycroft. Anthea was next to him, draping a blanket over Joe's broken body. A phone was in Mycroft's hand and as he stared, he heard the sound of sirens getting louder. "I thought you didn't call Lestrade," he grunted.

"I didn't. I called Mycroft. He'd at least be quiet about arriving," Sherlock grunted and John felt more than one pair of hands hauling him up the roof.

He could only assume that the people that helped Sherlock haul him back up to the roof were Mycroft's. It was hard to tell in the darkness and he squinted a bit as the blood that had rushed to his head went back down, but before he could really make out their faces, he felt Sherlock's arms wrap around him tightly. John grunted a bit and squirmed, but there was no prying Sherlock off. Instead, he was dragged back down the stairs, past the stunned eyes of the other apartment tenants, and onto the sidewalk.

Lestrade, who looked as if he was only half-dressed when he ran out of his apartment, was just getting out of his car. "Sherlock, what the hell—"

"I just solved one of your cold cases, now it's your turn to do the clean-up. We're going home."

"Oh no you're not, not until I get some answers! First, _how_ did you get your hands on the case to start with?!"

But Sherlock wasn't paying any attention. Instead, he snagged Lestrade's keys out of his hand and all but threw John into the passenger seat. "Do you even know how to drive?" he asked as Sherlock hurried around to the driver's seat, slamming the car door just as Lestrade reached it.

"Of course."

"Uh huh."

If what Sherlock did was called driving, John had been doing it wrong the whole time, he thought. Sherlock apparently thought brakes were for other people. Thankfully it was a short drive and he wasn't even sure _why_ they were in the car to start with. They'd walked to Joe's apartment…

The memory of what happened hit John and he gritted his teeth to keep it together. They'd been friends for four years, had been a place of healing when Sherlock had been gone. He didn't think that friendship had been a lie, but it was hard to place his friend in the same body as the one that had murdered his cousin for money, no matter the reason.

Their landlady was standing at the base of the stairs, clutching her robe closed. "Sherlock, what's going—"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson," the detective interrupted, following after John like a bodyguard. Once they were inside their flat, Sherlock slipped off John's coat. He nodded in thanks, kicking off his shoes and letting them land wherever they would. It was about to turn into morning and yet all John wanted to do was sleep. Did he have work? He couldn't remember all of a sudden.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around him from behind and John sighed, leaning back just a little. Oh, yeah, they'd had a fight, hadn't they? It had only been yesterday and less than an hour of his time, he had forgotten about all of it. It seemed even stupider as he wondered if they hadn't had that argument, he would have been here during the case and maybe been able to talk Joe into…something. Maybe the ending wouldn't have involved his death.

"You don't know that," Sherlock told him.

"Reading my mind now, Sherlock?" he asked, stepping away from his lover to go get changed for work, but hands pulled him back until they were both on the sofa.

"He tried to kill you, John. At no point was he prepared to surrender."

He wanted to believe Sherlock badly, because if the detective was wrong, it meant this outcome was his fault. "I have to get ready for work," he muttered, but Sherlock's hand on his arm tightened just a bit.

"Don't go today."

"I have to."

There was an odd look in his boyfriend's eyes as he stared at him and admitted, "I already informed them you wouldn't be coming in today."

John couldn't find it in him to be angry or annoyed that Sherlock had called in for him, probably last night, without even asking. He felt tears press against his eyes and he closed them, taking deep breaths so he wouldn't cry. Despite his best effort, a few slipped out anyway.

-0-

He woke rather abruptly. When had he fallen asleep? Looking around, he noted that he was in their bedroom, the lights were off, and it looked to be late afternoon, from what he could tell of the light around the closed blinds. His clothes had been changed to just a t-shirt and shorts. Rubbing his gritty eyes, John grabbed the first robe that came to hand and left the room to find Sherlock.

His boyfriend was pacing in the den, a phone plastered to his ear. Despite how badly John wanted to know when he'd fallen asleep, he politely attempted to wait until Sherlock was done. It took only seconds for the detective to see him and whoever he was speaking to was unceremoniously hung up on as he ended the call. His eyebrow rose and he grinned. "Missed me that much, John?"

"What?" Sherlock's eyes flickered from his face and to his chest, and John followed his gaze. The robe he had grabbed had turned out to be his boyfriend's and he felt a faint flush go up his cheeks. "It was closest to the bed, that's all. When did I fall asleep?"

"A few hours ago."

"What about…the case?"

"Lestrade is finishing it up. It's done."

"And his family? Have they been told?"

"I would assume so. Isn't that their job?"

John thought of Lisa, Joe's sister. He hadn't been on good terms with his family, hadn't spoken to any of them for years, but he had always told John stories of his younger sister when they'd been children. He hoped someone would call her, at least, to let her know. "I should check with Greg, make sure someone's been called."

"They're handling it, John."

He could hear the implied 'so leave it' and while he was tempted to argue, he didn't. Even if he did call her, what could he say? 'I was his friend and it's my fault he's dead'?

"It isn't your fault."

Deciding not to comment on that, John said instead, "Have you eaten yet?"

"…No."

"Then I'll make dinner tonight."

As he turned to head back into the kitchen, Sherlock said behind him, "I'm here, John."

A faint smile touched his lips. No matter how they might argue, no matter if Sherlock saw flirting where there was none or he was possessive, this was what counted. The man wasn't asking him to confide, but he was there if he needed to talk. He might not understand what John would say, but he would at least be there to listen in his own way. He'd try.

"I know. I'm so—"

Lips touched his neck as Sherlock crossed the distance so quickly it was like he teleported there. "No more apologies, John."

Right.


End file.
